I often see people, in the first day of a voyage, settling themselves in their deck chairs with copies of Spengler's Decline of the West, or Marx's Capital, the collected speeches of Burke, or The Golden Bough — books they have long intended to read. Now, they think, with days of complete rest before them, is the opportunity to make up lost time. On the second or third day, they are hanging about before the library doors, waiting for the steward to unlock them, eager to find love-stories or detective novels.